


i would do anything (for a taste of you)

by submissivekillers (prettylittlehead)



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Begging, Desperation, Dry Humping, F/M, M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Touch-Starved, brahms is HORN TEA, gender neutral reader but also wearing a skirt, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29555748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlehead/pseuds/submissivekillers
Summary: usually, you wouldn't consider reading dickens to be a particularly erotic pastime. brahms seems to disagree
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Kudos: 20





	i would do anything (for a taste of you)

**Author's Note:**

> request: _How about some Brahms dry humping? Our dirty boy doing some begging ;))) (anonymous)_
> 
> a quick and dirty lil drabble about desperate, horny brahms losing control after a stimulating reading of... a tale of two cities lmao. at one point when i was still writing this i had the book down as fifty shades of grey but i think dickens might be sexier honestly
> 
> originally requested on my tumblr, @submissivekillers. feel free to check me out as i work on posting more transplants!

It isn’t the most comfortable position; the shelves and the spines of larger books dig into your back, and Brahms’ grip around your wrist is white-knuckles tight, forcing your arm above your head. You cling to his bicep with your free hand, nails digging into the tense muscles beneath his cardigan as Brahms crowds close, nuzzling at your temple.

_“Please...”_

It starts high, whining, cracking down into his lower register as he surges against you. Your thighs spread wide to accommodate his bulk, his cock hot and hard even through the barrier of your clothing - he hadn’t even opened his trousers, too impatient to be away from you, but he’d flipped the hem of your skirt out of the way, the fabric pinned between your bodies. He bucks his hips shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as he grinds against the thin fabric of your underwear. You gasp breathlessly, heart racing both from the adrenaline of his abrupt cornering of you and from the coil of lust starting to stir, the desperation in his voice going straight between your legs.

Over his shoulder, you can still see the dog-eared copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ discarded on the floor. You had been reading to him for the past hour - a holdover from the strict schedule that he was slowly starting to shake - and while it was a classic, of course, it wasn’t exactly the peak of eroticism.

Yet he’d been coiled tight with tension as you recited Dickens, curled up on the couch with a distinct distance between your bodies, and you had barely closed the book when he launched himself at you with a hungry gleam in his eye. Was he really so enamored with you that something so simple and domestic as reading together could undo him like this - leave him panting and begging for your attention, barely holding back from humping your thigh?

The certainty of his want (need) for you makes you feel hot, sensitive, and you rise up to press a teasing kiss to the lips of his mask, drawing back with a laugh when he tries to follow your mouth.

“Please,” Brahms groans again, nudging your cheekbone with the nose of his mask. He drags your pinned wrist down and guides your fingertips to his throat, moaning when you finally touch his hot skin. You rake your nails down his heaving chest none-too-gently. “Please, I need you to touch me.”

“Brahms,” you gasp, voice breaking when he rocks into you urgently again. The late afternoon sun streams through the library windows, illuminating his vivid green eyes through the masks’ eyeholes: wide, frantic, pleading. When you curl your fingers around the tense line of his throat he lets out a shattered whine, rutting against you. You catch your breath, biting back a smile. “We’ll have a late lunch if you keep this up.”

“I don’t care,” is his immediate (and predictable) response. You raise a brow, shifting your hips subtly just to make him hiss, and his words spill out in a stuttered jumble. “I just need you, please, something.”

“Anything?”

“Anything you want to give me,” he wheezes. “I’ll take it all, so _please_ , God—”

You push him back just enough to knock his legs apart, slotting a thigh between his as you pull him back to you by the suspenders. Brahms finds a frantic rhythm immediately, eyes rolling, jaw going slack. You clumsily shove his mask up, swallowing his whine of your name as your lips meet, crushing and breathless.

“Remember to thank me when you come,” you hiss, and Brahms makes a noise like he’s breaking as he grinds desperately against your thigh.


End file.
